


Of All The Churning Random Hearts Under The Sun

by teenuviel1227



Category: Day6 (Band)
Genre: DoPil are in love, M/M, Magic, Pirates!AU, dopilweek2018, fluff but also some action, implied sexual content but nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 01:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14509749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenuviel1227/pseuds/teenuviel1227
Summary: Wonpil has been the Captain of the Apollo Aphrodite for years--when he finds an odd stowaway on his ship, their first instinct is to throw him overboard: after all, they’d done it before. But there’s something in the way that the man speaks, the way that he makes Wonpil laugh that changes his mind and eventually, tames his heart.





	Of All The Churning Random Hearts Under The Sun

**Author's Note:**

> It’s DoPil week! :D I’ve decided to post for all the days. The Day 2 prompt is Pirates. You can check out all of the information about DoPil Week here: http://twitter.com/day6sailing
> 
> Title of the fic is from Sea Legs by The Shins
> 
> CC/Twt: teenuviel1227
> 
> Sorry for any typos, I'll eventually re-read and correct them!

The first time that Captain Kim Wonpil of the Apollo Aphrodite laid eyes on Yoon Dowoon, he’d thought two things: first, that he was probably an idiot for stowing away on Wonpil’s ship--their crew is famous all throughout the northern hemisphere for being ruthless (of course no one had to know that a big part of that was more swagger than actual skill with slitting throats, more bark than bite, more magic that physical grit), for being the most dangerous ship to sail the Mercury Seas--and second, that maybe he was just what they needed. 

The Apollo Aphrodite is a large ship with a tight-knit crew: they’d built their reputation on looting and making deals, not with the petty pirates but with the nobility of the trade--Sea Kings and Queens of the Ocean who guarded their heists with all their might. The thing about the three-member crew of the Apollo Aphrodite is they were all gifted magicians, runaway sons of the Noble Houses of the North, citadel-studied and stadium-trained. What they lacked in physical strength they made up for in cleverness, what they lacked in number they made up for in magic: leverage, blackmail, the occasional bouts of mind-control 

Everytime lifted their bright pink sails, sailing their flag which bore Aphrodite rising from Apollo’s chariot, big and bold, other ships would sail away, docks would open, raiding yards would empty: if the port belonged to the crown, rangers would suddenly disappear from their posts and stay gone until the day they disembarked again--and if the port belonged to crooks, then an escort would be sent to lead them into the banquet halls safely, a courtesy afforded to no one else on both accounts. The Apollo Aphrodite, named after two of the most formidable gods to ever set foot on the Blue World: Apollo, the patron of Wonpil’s father’s house and Aphrodite, the patron of his mother’s.    
  
Love and war, the two things that made life worth living.    
  
It was First Mate Kang who’d found Dowoon hiding in one of the boats they used for fishing--he was curled around a bag carrying food supplies, nibbling on a piece of bread, when Brian had pulled the canvas sheet off of the small, wooden boat and revealed Dowoon mid-bite. Both men were quick: Brian had his curved blade out before the canvas sheet landed on the wooden deck, Dowoon was up in a flash, dagger drawn, before the bread roll he’d been savoring fell with a thunk onto the boat.    
  
“Touch me and I’ll fucking cut you,” Dowoon snarled.   
  
Brian laughed, loud and proud. “Right. And my name isn’t YoungK. You ever wonder what the K stands for?”   
  
“HAH. Some pirate.” Dowoon grinned. “Aren’t you from the House of Kang? Brian? The kid who abdicated his family’s seat at court? Am I really supposed to believe that a runaway blue blood’s going to gut me? You probably cry at the sight of blood.”   
  
Brian was off like a flash of lightning making for water, the boat tipping underneath him as he jumped on, swinging his blade, missing Dowoon but for the smallest cut across his cheek. Dowoon retaliated, dodging Brian and pushing him off to the starboard side of the boat so he stumbled, lost his balance on the rigging. Before Brian knew what was happening, Dowoon had him a bind, dagger to his throat.    
  
For a moment, he thought he’d won. For a moment, Dowoon had thought that he’d had an ace, a bargaining chip.    
  
And then Brian started laughing.    
  
And from behind Dowoon came a voice--soft but fierce, gentle but determined, high-pitched but sharp like a dagger made for throwing.    
  
“Impressive, kid.” The sound of boots on the hardwood floor, the sensation of the small boat tipping. “You even did some research on the noble houses--but if you’d dug a little deeper then you’d know something about the Kangs and the Kims and the Parks and all the twelve houses that rule the Northern Kingdoms, something else about this whole goddamn ship.”    
  
A rope swung behind Dowoon and onto the platform on which the boat was tethered, sat Captain Kim Wonpil with his legs crossed, his coat the starched-white of noble houses, his britches an inky, flawless black with a white stripe running down the side. His hat was wide-brimmed, a white plume lilting out of the side of it like a bit of cloud caught on a golden clasp by accident.    
  
“Too bad you didn’t do quite enough research.”    
  
The handsome captain grins--confident on the outside, but also inwardly introspective: wondering about the wide-eyed young man dressed in a soldier’s clothing, wondering about how long he’d been on board before Brian had discovered him, about why his scrying magic hadn’t gone off, hadn’t picked him up on the radar, about what thoughts he brought along with him, stories always a form of currency at sea.   
  
“See, the thing about Kangs is their special gift from the gods is a good one: they can’t die. They’re invulnerable to anything except the dagger of true love, can only be killed by the person they pledge their soul to. And we know that’s never going to happen because the guy who Kang pledged his heart to, well, he’s--”   
  
“--incredibly goodlooking? The best swordsman in all of the Blue World? The most handsome lieutenant of the royal army to ever go rogue?” A slightly hoarse voice pipes up, following the sound of an opening door, the hinges squeaking, footsteps climbing the stairs. Dowoon turns to see a tall man dressed in a billowy blue shirt strut out of from below deck. His hair is so blonde it’s almost white, smudging against the sky as the breeze blows through it.    
  
“--a Park,” Wonpil says, rolling his eyes. “And Parks literally need love to keep their powers going--”   
  
“--and you thought that was going to threaten me?” Dowoon asks pointedly, bringing his dagger closer to Brian’s throat. “A dagger pressed to your crew member’s neck and you think that a story about love is going to make me change my mind?”   
  
Brian rolls his eyes, glances at Jae.    
  
“Haven’t you heard of the expression  _ I’m a lover, not a fighter _ , kid? ‘Cause I’d like to show you just how love can kill.” Jae glances at Wonpil, asking for permission.    
  
Wonpil holds up a hand. Wait.    
  
“Jae here could kill you with the snap of his fingers. The Parks have the power to control souls so long as their soulmate is alive and his can’t die--this is common knowledge on the Isle which is the only plausible place we could’ve picked you up and yet you don’t know it. So I must assume that you aren’t from the Northern Hemisphere--”    
  
“--if you’re going to kill me, just kill me,” Dowoon says roughly. “I didn’t get on this ship to get a history lesson from a bunch of idiots. I got on this ship to escape a fate worse than death. I’m not afraid of dying”    
  
“Ooooh,” Brian says, grinning. “A curse?”    
  
Wonpil raises an eyebrow, intrigued now.    
  
“Your tutor?” Jae asks. “I hate tutors.”   
  
A grin spreads across Wonpil’s face as he gently jumps off of the platform, walking over to Dowoon. He nods at Jae who reaches a hand out--and just like that, Dowoon can’t move except to breathe, to blink. Dowoon’s eyes widen as his hand lifts up against his will, setting Brian free. Brian jumps down, stands beside Jae, loops an arm around his waist before pressing a soft kiss to his temple. 

“Thank you, my favorite Lover-Not-Fighter.”

“Your  _ only _ Lover-Not-Fighter,” Jae corrects.   
  
“Shut up, love birds.” 

Wonpil circles Dowoon, then, wondering if now is the time to use his power, if now is the time to show off and reveal his ace or if he can do this on his own, by sheer deduction, save the trump card for later. He decides to hold off, to give this a go first, because Captain Kim Wonpil can  _ smell _ the magic coming off of him, the particular kind of magic they need. It smelled like vanilla and wood, smoke and sea. Southern magic, earth magic, salt magic, the magic of directions and currents, of earth and water--northern magic was all fire and air, all impetus and no staying power, no direction.   
  
And if a ship needs anything, it’s a compass.   
  
“Let me guess,” Wonpil says, plucking the dagger from Dowoon’s hand and tossing it aside with a loud clang. “You’re running away from family.”    
  
Dowoon’s eyes widen. 

Wonpil grins. _Gotcha._  
  
“Nice one, Cap,” Jae says.  
  
Brian shakes his head. “Why didn’t I think of that.”   
  
“That’s the only thing worse than death,” Wonpil says, keeping his voice soft, vulnerable almost. “Alright, then, punk--why don’t I make you a deal? One that you won’t be able to resist because the alternative is death at Kang’s curved blade. I am willing to offer you a place aboard my ship for a simple price: I need you to help us navigate. I can see the southern magic in you. It’s in your voice, it’s in the heft of your step, the swing of your dagger. See our navigator, Jae’s southern cousin, Sungjin, left us for, well, nobler causes--”   
  
“--we haven’t sent a wedding gift yet,” Brian says hurriedly. “To the Duke of the Lunar Riverlands.”   
  
Wonpil looks at him pointedly.   
  
“We’ll see to that once we actually dock--if we ever see land again.” He turns his attention back to Dowoon. “Blink once for yes, twice for no.”   
  
A pause--and then Dowoon blinks once.   
  
Wonpil nods at Jae, who lets Dowoon go. Dowoon stumbles forward. Wonpil catches him, forgets that he isn’t wearing his gloves-- and Wonpil’s powers flare up upon contact, the entirety of Dowoon’s feelings, his life flooding through him: Wonpil sees, no _feels_ , lives through Dowoon’s fear, his anguish, his anger. 

He lets go, his heart lurching in his chest.    
__  
__ Who hurt you?   
  
“Please, Captain,” Dowoon says, kneeling at the Captain’s feet, his voice repentant, now, the depth of it lilting like the sea. “I have nowhere else to go.”

  
  


When Dowoon had first seen them, he’d hated them all almost instantly: the thing that these people, these  _ northerners _ forgot was where all their damn opulence came from, what it cost. Kang’s vibrant red coat, Park’s billowy silk shirts, the Captain’s flair for bright, glossy black. The steel in curved blades, the wood from which the ship was made. It might be the north that made the goods move, that sold them and bought them, that profited off of them, but it was the south that made them, that mined them, that built them, the south whose magic was carved and infused deep into the fibers of everything. 

In some strange way, Dowoon both hated and envied the erudite nature of their powers: how would it feel not to have to worry about dying? How would it feel to have everyone be able to do what you tell them? His own powers were as south as south could be--magic was rare there. Where in the north, most people had some sort of base ability, in the south, most people made do without it. 

In that way, Dowoon has always been special. Since he was little, he could read the patterns in the waves, in the ripples of a puddle, the currents of the river. He had a deck of southern onyx cards his father had bought him through which he could cypher the realities of things, see the truths of the world. He could track patterns in the soil, could sometimes shift the tide if the sun was in the right place in the sky. But always, Yoon Dowoon had had to worry about things like dying, about things like making his own choices, about things like people coming to their town to look for him, about things like getting what you needed just to fucking  _ live.  _

He’d stowed away on the Apollo Aphrodite because he was running away from his wealthy uncle: a steward-turned-merchant who’d brought him north promising his parents he’d be given a good education, a proper living, but once there he’d turned Dowoon into little less than a slave, using his powers to turn tide, to predict which shipments would go where. When he refused, Dowoon was locked in his basement room without supper if he was lucky, made to sleep in the stables if he’d been especially rebellious. And so, one day, pushed to his limit, Dowoon decided that he was going to run away. He had started talking to the stones in his room,  the wood of the house: moving earth is the most difficult of the magical things he knew how to do. Earth is stubborn, Earth takes its time. He’d asked for something simple--just a small opening in his wall, right behind the bed, a small tunnel just enough for him to slip through, crawl out of. He’d asked the wood, asked the stone, asked the soil: like all the elements, they asked for something before they bent. Magic is a conversation, so Dowoon had spoken. He gave them stories of the things he loved, things he lost. Dowoon spoke of his mother, who made jewelry and who sang to him as a child. He spoke of his father, who was a stonemason, who built things from the earth with toil and sweat and blood and bone. He told them stories of his home town, of his first love, of what it meant to be burdened with knowledge: he told a bigger, weightier story every night, each time, sealing the promise with salt--across the threshold of truth, over the veil of the world. He swore it, swore it true. 

And slowly, slowly, the Earth gave way. 

Of course, Yoon Dowoon isn’t an idiot--he knew he needed to get the hell out of there and off to somewhere else. If his uncle found him after he’d attempted to run away, he’d kill him or sell him or worse. He’d used the truth cards for that advice: where to go? Where is the safest place to hide? The sanctuary in which to wait?

Sure, he’d had his doubts when the onyx surface of the cards rippled and blurred to show him the Apollo Aphrodite. Who the fuck was safe on a Pirate Ship? 

He’d drawn another card: Kang, being dismissed from his house.  _ A secret.  _

A last card: the day of Brian’s abdication, Brian sneaking into a carriage in which Wonpil and Jae lay in the wait.  _ The crew are no more than runaway boys.  _

And so, he’d gone: hitchhiked on the anchor’s chain, holding on for dear life before padding on board and hiding in the boat until hsi day of reckoning. It was easy to read at first: the crew used northern magic, the spells set into the boat nice and easy, elegant, but predictable. He knew when the sails would fly, when the anchor would drop, knew when they were downstairs playing cards, knew when to sneak out and pilfer bread, when to sneak a drink of water. But even bread isn’t enough for anyone to live off on its own. The hunger and the thirst and the pain building in his back from sleeping on hardwood while the sea shifted beneath him took its toll. It was hard to read patterns when you were weak--and so, Kang had caught him off guard, his footsteps coming toward the boat, already too close before Dowoon realized what he was hearing. 

Dowoon’s hatred of First Mate Kang, of Lieutenant Park, of Captain Kim lasted all of a day-and-a-half. The thing about Brian Kang is that for all of his nonchalance, he was thoughtful and empathetic, generous and kind under all of his bravado. He’d abdicated the throne because they made him decide between the seat at court and his inheritance or Jae--always, he said, always he would pick the latter. And in a way, Dowoon could see why. Jae wasn’t just extremely intelligent, with his nose always in a book, with some fun fact always just waiting out of his sleeve, he was also sweet and charming, always doing things for other people, even Dowoon, to whom he owed nothing. Jae offered him wine, Jae gave him bread and meat, had fixed his beddings in his cabin himself (Dowoon had slept long and deep for the first time in almost a month). 

And then, of course, there was Captain Kim. Captain Kim, who’d held out a grape vine onto which Dowoon had rushed up, Captain Kim, who underneath his Captain’s cap was the most beautiful man that Yoon Dowoon had ever laid eyes on. Golden skin and brown hair that swept in a fringe across his forehead. Eyes that sparkled and a wide mouth that smiled easily and never seemed to say anything mean. He was kind and funny and sometimes like a child in a way that amazed Dowoon--seeing Wonpil’s wonder at the sea, at the humble magic that Dowoon could do made Dowoon’s heart swell with pride. Before he knew it, all he wanted in the world was for Kim Wonpil to like him, to think highly of him. 

And then the night of the assault had happened and after that--well, after that, Yoon Dowoon only wanted one thing in life: to be able to have the honor of kissing Captain Kim Wonpil again. 

 

 

They’d been sailing for land that they’d finally found north of the Elysian Star, a constellation that Dowoon remembers from his childhood--of course, they looked a bit different in the north, but they’d made do, making adjustments, using his cards, making bargains with the sea. Dowoon had been sailing with them for the better part of three months: by now, they were all friends, closely knit, easy as scissors running through silk.

Normally, there would be more protection charms on the ship, more spells in place to warn them of approaching danger--but on that day, they’d decided to channel all of their magic toward a singular goal: finding land. Resources were running low: some of their bread and fruits had caught mold. Brian was cranky because the coffee was no longer strong enough to brew something to soothe his moods. Jae was often irritable because they had to ration the wine. Wonpil never said anything but Dowoon could tell he was getting thinner, his concentration and cheer waning ever-so-slightly. Brian had taken the protection charms off of the entire left side of the ship because it was the side with the cannons--they could fire them if needed. Jae had stripped the mast of its security spell because the sea was still, for now, and they’d gone weeks without an attack: what was the harm in a few seconds on a random spring night? 

Plenty, apparently.

The thieves were from a crew whose main magic was utilized for camouflage: their sails almost invisible against the dark blue, their boat painted so dark a brown it was almost black. Before they knew it, they were on the deck. Before Dowoon knew what was happening, he’d barely had time to pocket his cards before the table was overturned. And then Brian was swinging his curved blades, steel singing against steel. And then Jae was building a glowing orb of blue around them, as he sought to reel in as many souls as he could, binding them all still around a mast. And then Jae was joining Brian as they fought back-to-back, his longsword drawn. 

And then Wonpil screamed. The cry was piercing, loud, the hairs on Dowoon’s arms standing as he looked up to see the Captain of the the other ship dragging Wonpil toward the edge of the deck by his wrist. Dowoon’s heart lurched in his chest, a thrill of fear running up his spine. The man was holding onto Wonpil’s bare wrist where it peeked out between his coat and his cuff.  _ No. No, no.  _ They never talked about it but Dowoon knew, Dowoon could tell from the look that Wonpil had given him that time he’d collapsed after being released from Jae’s power. He could tell that he  _ knew _ . 

He also knew it in the way that the sea yielded when Dowoon spoke and Wonpil used his hands to listen, skimming the surface of the water as they sat in the small boat tethered to the ship as they found a way, a direction in which to navigate. Wonpil was a hyper-empath, the most powerful and most painful of all magical abilities: to know your enemy’s experience and also, to claim it as your own, if only for a moment. 

Without a second thought, Dowoon ran and tackled the man, who jerked backward, releasing Wonpil. Dowoon saw how he stumbled and reached for his hand--gloves off, they had been talking to the northern wind--and helping him up, helping him find his footing faster. Dowoon ducked as he saw Wonpil draw a dagger from his boot, aim true, and throw. In an instant, it was all over: the steel finding its mark in their adversary’s heart. 

Brian and Jae had thrown the other stunned sailors over the deck, both of them working to blast their canons into the opposing ship’s body. The fight was done. The ship calm again, the seas already claiming the other ship for its own. And when Dowoon had looked at Wonpil, he saw an expression on his face that he’d never seen before.

_ Curiousity? Wonder? Disgust? _

“What is it, Captain?”

Wonpil simply straightened up, rubbed his hands together--no gloves--and smiled. “Come to my cabin after dinner.” 

Dowoon had blushed deeper the horizon at sunset. 

  
  


The Captain’s chambers were a lot simpler than Dowoon imagined: roomy but with none of the flash and decor that Brian and Jae’s chamber had. Only a few books on the table, a couple of photographs hung on the wooden wall by the porthole. When Dowoon entered, Wonpil was standing by the dresser, putting his hat down, just shrugging out of his coat. 

Dowoon feels the tips of his ears burn at the sight of Wonpil’s collarbones, the sight of his shoulders against the sheer fabric of his cotton shirt, the outline of his chest. He averts his eyes, focusing instead on the edge of the bed.

“Captain? You asked for me?” 

Wonpil had smiled then. “You know, the Captain thing is more of a formality. You can just call me Wonpil for crying out loud.”

Dowoon felt his face heat up. “Yeah but--it would feel strange.”

Wonpil tilted his head. “Why’s that?” 

Dowoon blinked. “Well. You’re...my superior. I respect you and I look up to you and it’s difficult to explain--” 

Wonpil smiled. “--it didn’t seem so difficult.”

“Pardon me?”

Wonpil walked toward him slowly, eyes intense as he tilted Dowoon’s chin up to meet his gaze. “Back there. In the throes of the fight. When you pulled me up and you held my hand I--I mean, what I saw, what I felt. It wasn’t so hard to explain. Not in so many words.” 

Dowoon’s heart was pounding, his face crimson now, the tips of his ears burning. “I’m sorry--Captain, I didn’t mean to--”

“--do you really think you’re standing in my quarters because I want you to be sorry?” Wonpil asked, his voice almost a whisper.

“What do you want me to be, Kim Wonpil?” Dowoon asked back, his voice low, his eyes only now daring to meet Wonpil’s. 

Wonpil shrugged, smiling and reaching out to cup Dowoon’s cheek. “Whoever you are, Yoon Dowoon.”

And with that, Dowoon felt himself move, like wood being spoken into, having been spoken into and coaxed for months, for days and days, cycles of the sun giving way to the moon as it shone bright over the sea. He gave way, stepping forward and letting a hand brush against Wonpil’s cheek, his fingers finding the hollow of his neck, fingers ruffling the soft hair at the base of his nape before closing the distance between them and kissing Wonpil soft, tender. 

He felt Wonpil grin against him, knew that his hands were bereft of their gloves tonight, knew that Wonpil knew what he was feeling, knew what he wanted, and for how long and how deeply. By the time they pulled apart, Dowoon was trembling, every inch of his body singing with magic. 

“Wow.”

Wonpil grinned, holding Dowoon’s gaze. “Thank you for saving my life, Dowoonie.”

“Dowoonie,” Dowoon repeated, his hands coming to rest on Wonpil’s waist. 

“Stay the night.” 

And Dowoon did as his Captain told him, moving his lips softly to the hollow of his throat as Wonpil sighed, sinking deeper into his embrace.  
  


 

The next morning, they woke to the sound of Brian yelling-- _ land ho!  _ The next morning, Dowoon rose in the Captain’s bed, both of them shy and tender and still heady with the events of the night before. Jae rolled his eyes at them as they emerged from Wonpil’s cabin and stepped aboard the deck to see just how close they’d gotten to the shore. Jae ran his gaze across both of them: clothing barely done up, hair rumpled, Dowoon’s neck marked with small, red bruises. 

“Well, Cap,” Jae said as they all watched themselves get closer and closer to land. “Here’s to another great adventure.” 

“And good coffee goddammit,” Brian piped in, putting an arm around Jae. 

Dowoon grinned, watching the horizon. He found himself blushing hard, his thoughts swimming with the notions of land and sea, of bodies rocking against each other in the silver-blue dark, as Wonpil slipped an arm around his waist and planted a small kiss on his cheek: a promise of more, soon, forever.

“Here’s to that.” 


End file.
